by Wicked Wager
A sudden memory assailed her—talking with Lane the morning she’d been fired on…with Frankston lurking in the shadows.
She shook off a chill. “I will do so, cousin.”
He came over to pat her hand. “I had begun this talk hoping to allay your concerns, not create new ones! But rest assured I shall look into this matter urgently, that I might be able soon to lay all your anxieties at rest.”
“You are most kind,” she murmured, removing her hand.
“Any assistance I can render you, my dear Jenna, must always give me pleasure.”
That subtle reference to his hopes increased her discomfort, and she blessed the fact that he would not be remaining with them at Lady Montclare’s this evening. “I must leave now. Aunt Hetty will be beside herself at the possibility of arriving late.”
Lane groaned. “So she shall. Tell her I will join you in a trice.”
How genuine was Lane’s show of concern, Jenna wondered as she continued on to the parlor. The interest in her person that he radiated was real enough to make her uncomfortable. Did that automatically mean he was ignorant of any possible wrongdoing?
She had no idea of the extent of Lane’s personal income. If Bayard really had conspired to harm—or even remove—her, he might have promised Lane a share for turning a blind eye to his maneuvering.
Still, if Lane hoped to entice her to marry, surely he would think that an easier means of getting his hands on her fortune than by conspiring with his cousin in some risky scheme that would win him, at best, only half of it.
Damme and blast! she swore silently, almost wishing Nelthorpe had never made her privy to his suspicions. She didn’t like delving into this shadowy world of evil deeds and intentions. Just thinking about it made her head ache.
All the more reason to bring pressure to bear on whoever might be involved, ending this anxiety of doubt by forcing the culprit into further action where he—or she—could be dealt with.
Perhaps later she would visit Bayard himself.
HER HEAD POUNDING IN TRUTH, shortly after midnight Jenna bid Aunt Hetty good-night and headed to her chamber.
Lady Montclare’s musicale had been as insipid as she’d feared. In addition, she’d endured Aunt Hetty’s sotto voce grumbling between each musical selection that Jenna and Lane’s tardy appearance had made them miss the food and conversation of the preperformance reception.
Afterward she’d had to turn aside Lady Montclare’s questions, naked curiosity cloaked in irritatingly playful tones, about Colonel Vernier’s intentions and whether his potential courtship had caused Jenna to dismiss Nelthorpe—who, she’d heard, had taken his rejection badly and was still haunting Fairchild House, bothering the servants.
As Jenna climbed the stairs, annoyance faded and a sense of anxiety returned, stronger than any that had thus far gripped her.
Was she being reckless, insisting on remaining at Fairchild House? Was Bayard really a danger to her?
Had he been present tonight, she might have asked Nelthorpe’s opinion, but not surprisingly, he had not been among the crowd of guests.
As she hesitated with her hand on the door latch, her stomach fluttering, she realized that by now, Lady Charlotte should have returned from her dinner engagement.
For a moment, she was consumed by the temptation to wheel around, march past a doubtless astounded Manson and take a hackney straight to Mount Street. But she’d look ridiculous, fleeing to her friend in the middle of the night over nothing more threatening than a bad case of jitters. Setting her jaw, she made herself enter the room.
What would Garrett have done if he’d suspected someone had conspired to kill their child?
The question calmed and steadied her. For she knew without doubt that her husband would have searched to the ends of the earth and faced any risk to find the truth.
How could she do any less?
Perhaps it was good that she’d given that display of nervousness before Lane. If he were involved in some way, he’d have notified his accomplices that she was suspicious, making it more likely they might move against her.
Her adversaries in London had never known her as the colonel’s daughter. If this led to a confrontation, they would anticipate her being frightened and helpless. They would not expect armed resistance.
They’d not expect her.
Taking a deep breath, she rang for Sancha and took out her pistol.
SOMETIME AFTER SHE’D FALLEN into a restless sleep, a weapon at her side and Sancha dozing at the foot of her bed, she awoke with a start. Trying to still the sudden racing of her heart, she sat up slowly and strained her ears to listen.
She heard it again, the slow, stealthy pad of footsteps in the corridor. Forcing down a momentary sense of panic, in the moonlight from the window Sancha had purposely left uncurtained, she slid to the floor and took up her pistol, motioning the maid to silence.
If she were to be attacked, she would meet the danger straight on, not cowering in her bed, she thought as she noiselessly crept to the door.
Easing it open, she spied Bayard’s valet a few paces away, his hands laden with a heavy tray that bore a single candlestick and several covered dishes.
“Frankston!” she hissed.
The valet started, nearly knocking over the candlestick as he whirled to see who’d hailed him. “L-Lady Fairchild!” he exclaimed.
“What are you doing skulking about in the middle of the night?”
“Was so sharp-set I couldn’t sleep, m’lady, so’s I went to get some victuals from the kitchen. Sorry I disturbed ye.” He gave her a quick nod and stepped away.
And then halted again, his eyes widening, as she pulled the pistol from behind her skirts and leveled it at him. “Were you hungry, you would have eaten in the servants’ kitchen—not brought food up here on a silver tray. Would you care to try your explanation again?”
“Lord, ma’am, put down that popper ’for it goes off and ye raise the house!”
“I’m more likely to level you. From this distance there’s no chance that I would miss. The truth this time, if you please, Frankston.”
He cast a fearful glance down the hallway toward Lane’s door. “Please, ma’am! I dare not wake Mr. Fairchild.”
“Then you had best speak softly and fast.”
“The victuals be for my master. He, ah, sometimes fergets to eat during the day. Gets involved in his experiments, you know, ma’am, and—”
“Frankston,” Jenna interrupted, “you try my patience. Your master dines with us at every meal. Perhaps it would speed matters if I wake Mr. Fairchild.” Keeping the pistol aimed at the valet, she took a step toward Lane’s door.
“Nay, ma’am, please!” he cried in an urgent undertone. “I’ll tell ye everything. Only don’t be waking that one.” After another quick glance down the hallway, he continued, “The tray is for my master. He’s so caught up in his work, he don’t notice much when he eats, so I try to feed him summat between mealtimes, so’s he won’t eat as much then. You see, I takes care of his supplies, and over the last months, I been noticing some of his chemicals disappearing. And my master, he’s been having powerful pains in his stomach ever since your husband died. So I’ve started fixing him food with my own hands.”
That instinctive foreboding tightened in Jenna’s gut. “Just what are you implying?”
“I don’t know nothing fer sure, my lady—and what court would listen to the likes of me speaking against a nob? But Mr. Fairchild there—” he jerked his chin toward Lane’s door “—he didn’t never like my master, and since Mr. Bayard’s come into the title, he likes him even less. A cold, calculating man he is, that Mr. Fairchild. I wouldn’t put it past him to be poisoning my master, just so’s he can be viscount instead.”
The implications of having Lane possibly scheming to do away with Bayard made her dizzy. Taking a deep breath to clear her head, she motioned Frankston away. “Very well, you may go now.”
“Thank’ee, my lady. You be careful of
Mr. Fairchild.”
She nodded, then watched as he scuttled down the hallway and disappeared into the darkness, the candle casting an eerie flickering glow as he went. Slowly she backed into her room, heart pounding and hands shaking.
“Did you hear, Sancha?” she whispered after she’d closed and relatched the door.
“Si, mistress,” the maid replied. “Sit here. I will get you sherry.”
After lighting a single candle, she poured a glass and brought it to Jenna, who gratefully sipped its fiery warmth. “What does it mean, do you think?” Sancha asked.
“I’m not sure—I shall have to consider all the details.” But even as she took another sip, she recalled a number of occasions upon which Lane had demonstrated a thinly disguised contempt of his odd, self-absorbed cousin, who seemed to have neither interest in the title nor, in Lane’s opinion, the manners and bearing to make him worthy of carrying so great an honor.
Was his contempt virulent enough to prompt him to attempt murder?
And if he had committed himself to so heinous a course, would he not hasten to remove any other impediment that might stand between himself and the prize—including her unborn child?
The testimony she’d forced out of Frankston provided no more actual proof than she and Nelthorpe had already accumulated. But whether Lane was correct in warning her against Bayard and Frankston, or the valet correct in warning her against Lane, she now had enough circumstantial evidence to feel justified in leaving Fairchild House.
Under the guise of assisting Lady Charlotte in her Christmas preparations, she and Sancha would quit her cousin’s house tomorrow morning.
After finishing the sherry and briefly explaining to Sancha what she intended—a decision of which Sancha heartily approved—Jenna went back to bed, the pistol once more on the pillow next to her.
Heavens, she thought with grim humor, and she’d thought upon the end of the war to have left behind her forever the days of sleeping with a weapon by her side!
But when in danger on the continent, she’d had Garrett to consult with and assist her. Resolutely she banished the ache of missing him—and a longing for the dark-haired, gray-eyed man who’d succeeded him in watching over her.
Her sleep no more restful than before, it seemed she had hardly shut her eyes when once again, some muffled sound jerked her awake.
This time, the footfalls were more purposeful—and they stopped just outside her chamber. Before she could do more than grab her pistol and pivot toward the entry, a thin metallic noise rattled the lock and the door swung open.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TONY HAD TO INSINUATE himself into three ton parties that night before he finally tracked down Lucinda Blaine. He’d been warmed that Jenna seemed concerned for his safety—even if, he admitted with a sigh, that concern probably stemmed more from not wanting his death or injury on her conscience than any exceptional fondness for his person. Not wishing to add to her worries, he’d let her think he’d agreed to her request that he not pursue the countess. But with Jenna’s safety still in jeopardy, he intended to ruthlessly track down every potential foe.
He stood now observing the woman he’d idly pursued before leaving for the Peninsula. In her early twenties, with the bloom of youth still upon a skin cleverly augmented by expensive cosmetics, the countess was perhaps more strikingly attractive than he remembered, if no longer presenting an aura of virginal innocence.
Not that Lucinda Blaine had ever been truly innocent. From her debut in the ton, she’d known she’d wanted the most elevated title her looks and her father’s maneuvering could buy. Loving a second son like Garrett Fairchild—if love him she ever had—would not have swayed that purpose.
With Garrett off to the army and the earl’s heirloom ring upon her finger, she’d quickly tired of her aging husband. Rumor had already linked her with several reckless ton bachelors when she’d embarked upon that flirtation with Tony. Despite their contretemps in the park a few days ago, he expected she might be susceptible to flattery from an old admirer, especially if preceded by an abject apology and a little groveling.
To protect Jenna, Tony was fully prepared to grovel.
Given the size of her court and his weak leg, it took him some time to muscle a spot amid the circle of swains surrounding Lucinda Blaine. Once propped against a convenient pillar, he fixed what he hoped was a look of soulful admiration on his face and waited.
A few moments later, she scanned a restless eye over the crowd, first passing by him, then returning to focus with amused recognition. “Why, Anthony Nelthorpe, what brings you here? I thought you were far too preoccupied by good deeds to bother with pleasure.”
“Simply doing my duty to assist the widow of a fellow officer, my lady,” Tony replied, limping over to kiss the hand she offered. “Alas, too often for a soldier’s liking, duty must take precedence over pleasure—and,” he added with a silent apology to Jenna, “one’s own preference.”
She made a self-satisfied murmur. “Given the prudish prune of a widow you were assisting, I’m sure there wasn’t any pleasure.” She smiled as several of her courtiers tittered. “Which is only what you deserve for being so ill-advised in your choice of…friends.”
“I protest, dear lady! Never did I mean to slight you. If it appears I did, you have my deepest apologies.”
“Confess, my lord, you come here only because, I hear, your virtuous widow dismissed you.” She shook her head in mock-pity. “Such is the reward of benevolence.”
“But benevolence is not always a mistake. If you will only, in your mercy, forgive my maladroit behavior, I promise to demonstrate my most ardent contrition.”
“La, Tony Nelthorpe, you were ever a honey-tongued rascal.” She leaned closer to tap him with her fan. “Very honey-tongued, as I recall,” she added for his ears alone. “Whatever am I to do with you?”
“As you so generously offered, let us renew old bonds—and explore new ones. Leave this dull party and come have supper with me.”
“What’s this?” inserted Wardsworth, one of the courtiers loitering beside her. “You can’t carry off the belle of the evening, Nelthorpe! Not sporting!”
“Ah, but Wardsworth, you gentlemen have been able to worship at her feet these past three years. ’Tis only fitting that those of us off doing valiant service for our nation should now have a chance. A gracious boon granted—” he turned to Lucinda “—to one of the victors of war.”
“Now, why should I grant you such a boon?” she asked, her gaze playing down his person to linger at his groin.
He let his eyes follow the path hers had taken. “That the conquerors might demonstrate the vigor that made them victorious?” he suggested.
She giggled. “Naughty boy! But we have many vigorous men here—who have not been so fickle in their loyalties.”
“Ah, but you have suffered their faces—and their technique—times out of mind. I offer the benefits of novelty…and foreign experience.”
A spark of interest lit in her eyes. “Does—foreign experience—enhance one’s enjoyment?”
He shrugged and gave her a lazy smile. “Have dinner with me and you can decide.” He held out his arm.
She tapped a finger against her lips, considering, prurient curiosity apparently warring with the desire to punish him for his lapse in slighting her earlier. Tony knew he dare add nothing else, lest he seem too suspiciously eager.
Fortunately her three-parts-castaway swain intervened at that moment. “Nay, you mustn’t!” Wardsworth objected, grabbing the countess’s hand to prevent her placing it in Nelthorpe’s. “You cannot leave us just because this latecomer offers you a few pretty words.”
With a contemptuous glance, the countess shook off his touch. “You are wrong, Wardsworth. I do whatever pleases me. Besides, gentlemen…” She raised her voice to carry across the assembled group. “’Tis but my patriotic duty!”
“So, Tony Nelthorpe—” she placed her hand on his arm with the graciousness of a sove
reign awarding a great beneficence “—show me what you will.”
“As you command, goddess,” he replied, hoping what he intended to demonstrate would move her profoundly, though not in the manner she so obviously expected.
A SHORT TIME LATER, Tony led Lucinda Blaine through the portal of a handsome townhouse a few blocks away that, anticipating the success of his gambit, he’d arranged with an obliging fellow officer to borrow for the evening.
How much keener his anticipation would be, he thought with a sigh, if it were Jenna he had coaxed across such a threshold! But the quest that brought him here was more imperative, if much less enjoyable.
Fortunately, Lucinda had rebuffed the attempt to kiss her he felt obliged to make once they’d entered the hackney that conveyed them here. Doubtless intending to heighten his anticipation, she’d told him he owed her a fine dinner before they had any more intimate conversation.
But after they arrived and she’d refreshed herself, in the process dampening her gown to make her vaunted charms even more blatant, she apparently decided Nelthorpe deserved a taste of the pleasures to come.
After seating herself on the sofa, she patted the place beside her. “Come closer, my lord. One does not hold congress with one’s friends at such a distance.”
He couldn’t deny that his body had risen in response to the voluptuous figure displayed by the wetted silk, despite his adverse opinion of its wearer. After her display of vanity and her treatment of Jenna, he’d as soon bed a slug.
Still, wanting to take no chances that lust might overpower good sense, he smilingly declined. “’Tis better to gaze from a distance.”
“Is it?” she replied, her playful tones chilling.
“Yes, my goddess. The sages of the east proclaim that viewing without touching fires the appetite and gives greater endurance to the performance.”
“I see,” she said, somewhat mollified. Then, a hot light coming into her eye, she reached toward his trouser flap. “That being the case, shouldn’t I—”
